Blue Monday's Daring Blog

We all remember our ‘first time’. I don’t. I do remember going to Brighton with a group of friends during a school weekend exeat towards the end of my final term. What happened next remains fuzzy. What I do remember was queueing outside a rather sleazy doorway and, when it was my turn, being welcomed by a nice lady. I’m not sure how much I paid, can’t have been much because if I was being charged by the minute I probably saved a fortune. I came exactly on time. Seconds not minutes. Frugal. All I can remember is that I wasn’t proud of the experience or the performance. But it was done.

I also remember that, in my last year at school, while magazines provided great solace I developed a need to see moving pictures. Some action. How was it done? What were ... [more]

My last year at school passed rewardingly. I was a school prefect which means I had respect. I was well-regarded, played sport at a high level and secured good exam results. Everything was rosy. Well not everything. The school decided to pretend to move with the times and let girls join the sixth form. I watched my best friends move in for the kill. They all had dark hair, beautiful skin and were charismatic, witty and were fuelled by late-teenage testosterone. At the very peak of adolescent, masculine irresistibility. Burgeoning confidence, imminent manhood. Right time, right place.

I had acne and blonde hair. Wrong time, wrong place. They got the girls. I watched with untold envy.

The only compensation was that my illicit appointments with beautiful, shapely, scantily-clad girls cont ... [more]

It began to sink in that a phone call carried too much risk. My inability to speak into a telephone was seriously jeopardising my chances of making the required impression. This called for extreme measures. Stalking.

What if we met by complete accident during the course of a normal day? A pre-planned coincidence. It was a masterful plan. The local phone directory was very helpful in providing the address I needed and I went to work. The trouble was that her bungalow was not blessed with camouflage. No bushes, no undergrowth, nowhere for a spy to loiter with invisibility. In fact the whole operation had to be conducted at the end of the road from behind a red post box. My alibi was flimsy and the postman was suspicious. I relied on fate. But fate had other ideas.

The trouble with puppy love is that it runs away with all reason. When it’s the very first time that you’ve been pierced by Cupid’s arrow it sprints. To say my judgment was clouded was like saying that the world’s being affected by global warming. It’s only a smidgen of the truth.

I was besotted. It interfered with my appetite, my sleep, my emotional incontinence. Even my dating schedule in the lavatory was thrown into turmoil. I had new material to process. She kissed me. Correction she snogged me. Lips, tongues and a full-on erection. Vis a vis she likes me. Clearly finds me rather attractive. Correction she fancies me. In fact she probably loves me. Clearly full-on snogging with absolutely no chat lines, or in fact any conversation whatsoever, can only me ... [more]

While I was more than happy accumulating a catalogue of chromatic lovers real life was surprisingly about to deliver a formative and life-altering experience. At first it seemed like exactly what I needed. Little did I know how it was going to affect my emotional development. What seemed so right became so wrong.

I must have had some respite from my acne. Temporarily. Little did I know that what was about to happen would stimulate my endorphins to deliver another five years of dysfunctional disfigurement and enforced solitude. My late teenage hormones were raging and fate was about to deliver some respite from dating busty blondes in the upstairs lavatory.

I was a tennis player. Not strictly true I hit tennis balls over a net (sometimes). To improve my skillset and enhance my burgeonin ... [more]

I suspect it didn’t help that my upbringing was rather conservative. Sex was not discussed, there was no conversational innuendo and any kissing on TV precipitated a rapid and furtive change of channels. Clear preference was expressed for nature documentaries. My Dad’s paternal duty was done one day in his workshop when the rudimentary details were discussed without eye contact and all a bit too functional. Boys of that age know when there was something being withheld. Why use matt paint on woodwork when gloss is clearly preferable?

The situation was further complicated by an outbreak of adolescent acne. Growing pains par excellence. Painful and unsightly. Or at least a 16 year old thought so. Who wants to go out with a boy with spots? My mind convinced me no one. Possibly se ... [more]

A confession. I've been a naughty boy. Consistently. I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. No constitutional rules broken; maybe some moral codes. Probably not classifiable as good 'behaviour'. But God it's been fun.